ridge which rises by the side of the river Adoyna; and the moment they had ascended it, a large force appeared in the distance, their muskets glittering in the faint rays of the sun. It was the corps of the Baron d'Aspre, advancing on the road towards Nova ra. After carefully surveying the distant foe, Pinaldi and Porro turned their horses, and at full speed galloped back to their post at Olengo, where they instantly sent word to General Chrzanowski of the approach of the enemy. A body of Piedmontese sharpshooters they found was stationed in a group of houses along the road, which must form the first place of attack. The two friends rode along the ranks of the small body of cavalry, endea vouring to while away the time which must elapse before the enemy ap. proached near enough to commence the deadly strife, by uttering words of encouragement to the brave hearts be fore them. They were, however, but little needed amongst them, for their every pulse beat with anxiety to meet their common foe. Glorious band! in thee Italy beheld sons worthy of her pride!

In a short time the enemy made his appearance, and instantly formed in line of battle. With ardour the Austrians advanced to the attack of the houses, where were stationed the Piedmontese sharp-shooters, and drove them, after a short contest, from the buildings. The Savona regiment, that had arrived to the aid of their Italian brothers, rushed onwards to prevent their flight; but numbers prevailed, and they also were forced to retreat. The second Savoy regiment, remarkable for its courage and discipline, now appeared marching hastily to the scene. The instant the Baron perceived its approach, he gave orders to the trumpeters to sound the order to prepare to charge :

"Italians! now is the moment to show yourselves worthy your country! Be ready! Justice fights on your side!"

Again shrilly blew the trumpets, and with loud shouts of "Viva l'Independenza Italiana! Morte ai Tedeschi!" onwards, in serried columns, like a mighty avalanche, dashed that noble band, driving the foe before them, and giving time to the Savona regiment to form again their disordered ranks. Bravely, too, advanced the

Savoyards, singing the Marseillaise Hymn, to the combat, and, despite a terrible flank fire, vomited forth from the Austrian artillery, they made good every inch of ground, and boldly drove the enemy before them. Their career was, however, presently stopped by the advance of the division of the Count Kielmansegges, and again in their turn they were forced to retreat. Fresh troops poured in on each side, and the combat became a general one. Count Kollourat, with a large force of the enemy, aided by a powerful artil lery, had stormed, near San Mazzaro, several Casine; while the Kaiser Jä gers had extended themselves to the right of Olengo. The sixteenth regiment of Savona, that had nobly distinguished itself there, against fearful odds, was at length forced to retreat, and the Duke of Genoa, learn. ing its situation, instantly led forward his whole division to its support. The gallant Marquis of Passalacqua also hastened to the same post, and wading with his troops through the Arboyna, turned the flank of the Austrians, and, with fearful loss of life, drove them back on Olengo, which the division under the Austrian Archduke had succeeded in occupying. But not long did they retain that position; for the Duke of Genoa, disengaging the fourth regiment, pushed forward to the assault, and, amidst a storm of missiles, drove the enemy from Olengo. This momentary victory was dearly bought, as here fell the gallant Perrone and the Marquis Passalacqua, covered with wounds.

The day was now far advanced, and almost the entire of the Piedmontese army was engaged with the divisions of Baron d'Aspre and the corps under the command of the Archduke Albert and his brother, the Sardinians victorious on every side, when the third Austrian division, under General Appel, appeared on the field of battle to give fresh courage to their dismayed friends. Again, with fresh vigour and renewed force, advanced the Austrians to the combat; again pealed forth the thunder of artillery; again echoed the shouts of command-the groans of the dying. In vain did the enemy pour fresh battalion after battalion on the Sardinian forces-vain the charges made with desperate courage; they were met with a gallantry and devo tion worthy the noblest and brightest

cause. Once more did victory gild the banners of the Savoy Cross, and had night fallen but then, a new impulse would have been given to the Italian hope of nationality. The fire of Novara would have extended throughout Lombardy, and raised on the rear of the Austrian a hundred thousand foes -unarmed, it is true, but yet formi. dable in their imposing numbers. Providence willed the sufferings of Italy should still continue-its want of faith its own curse.

At this hour, when Heaven seemed smiling hope on the destinies of Italy, General Chrzanowski ordered the final blow to be struck, and the division of General Bes, which hitherto had been kept in reserve, to advance to the attack. In close columns they were preparing for the decisive charge, when Marshal Radetzky, with a formidable body of artillery, accompanied by six battalions of grenadiers, made his ap pearance on the field of battle, and instantly the movement was checked by the fire of thirty guns. At the same period also the fourth division, under Count Thurn, had crossed the Agogna, and, unknown to Chrza nowski, attacked his rear. Secured in their strength now-in their powerful field of artillery in the reinforce ments which thus unexpectedly arrived to their assistance the Austrians on every side rushed to the attack of their disheartened but yet unbeaten foe. For six long hours had the Sar dinian army been now engaged, their numbers thinned, their strength almost exhausted. Now were seen in their ranks, as the order was given to retreat, deeds worthy of being chroni cled in the page of history-danger despised-honour, patriotism, animating still their courage. The Duke of Genoa exposed himself in the very thickest of the fight-now charging on horseback, now battling on foot-his example giving courage to the weary troops wherever he appeared. And where during all this time was the illfated monarch, who had so nobly risked his throne for Italy's sake? He, too, throughout the entire day, had endured the same hardships and danger as the commonest soldier in his ranks, rushing wherever it was most to be found, and often carrying victory wherever he came. Amongst a storm of bullets that had twice killed horses under him, he seemed to bear a

charmed life. His sabre reeking with the blood of the foe, his noble form towering above all, the plumes of his helmet hacked to pieces, he still fought on, undaunted, amidst the carnage. Once more, brave King-worthy of a nobler fate!-dash thyself on the advancing enemy; see how he shrinks before thy blood-stained sabre! The day is lost; but thy deeds of devoted heroism will remain embalmed within the hearts of thy army. Thou seekest death, yet cannot find him. See! thou art surrounded, and thy hour may be nigh; still, fight on-fight to the last, What a glorious moment to fall, stricken on that gory field where the blood of many a high spirit devoted to thee flows in streams!-thy last deed, combatting for the cause of humanity. But see, who is that who stands by thy side, warding off from thy head many a blow, his body covered with wounds, yet, dauntless, unmindful of his self, regarding alone thy own safety? It is the Baron Pinaldi. Through the field, dashing over the bodies of the living and the dead, onwards advance -to the rescue! to the rescue!-the last remnant of the gallant band of Pinaldi, led by Alberico Porro. Their noble monarch is in danger-what care they for the fearful odds against them! With desperation they charge the astonished foe, who thought the kingly prize his own, and in an instant the space is clear. A moment more, and it would have been too late-the Baron Pinaldi has sunk to the ground, a sabre-cut severing his head from his body. But quick!-the danger is not yet past. In a close column, the King in their centre, they retreat, fighting every inch of ground against the fearful foe that pressed upon their steps. In a moment more, they are comparatively safe; they have joined the troops of General Durando, who, in good or, der, are effecting their retreat. Amidst the prayers of those around him, the King refuses to leave the field. "Ge

neral!" exclaimed he to Durando, "let me die on the field-this should be my last day!" Alas! his destiny was not there he was to offer still the mournful spectacle of fallen majesty. Not till near eight o'clock that evening did Carlo Alberto leave the fatal field, on which was wrecked the last hopes of poor Italy. Weep! weep! Italy, the stranger still exults in thy slavery, misery, degradation !

IT was night. The dark hand of Time slowly and mournfully had passed onward since our last chapter. Another few hours and the town of Novara was enshrouded in a darkness, lit only here and there by a few solitary stars, whose mild beams lent a still sadder look to the field of carnage, desolation, and death. Night!-ah, who can forget that night? In its short space fell the hopes of thousands of brave and noble hearts-hearts that but the night previous beat high and quick with earnest fervour for country and home. Those same scenes then echoed with the heart-stirring martial song of war, carrying in its notes the brightest inspirations of the human mind, and teeming with a thousand wishes, wildly and joyously uttered, for the independence of their native land. Where now were the sounds of

those happy songs? Gone; and in their place were heard on every side the wail of lamentation and despair, the groans of the wounded, the prayers of the dying, the efforts of officers to conduct and array their soldiers in order, the struggling, the shouts of command -all presenting a mass of horror and confusion impossible to describe. Those alone who were present could form a picture of the scene of heart-sickening despair; and how bitter and terrible was the disappointment felt, far more even in that scene of agony, of those bright hopes of national emancipation, so long wished for, and which were carried out with a boldness, and energy, and virtue, perhaps the world will never witness again. Night-yes, it was night indeed. The exile, torn from his home, banished from his country, plundered of all most dear to him in life, never hears that fatal night mentioned but his heart becomes that of a child, and in vain he weeps over the memory of those brave-hearted companions who fell on the field of battle, manfully combating for the cause of

Civilisation, of Justice, and of Right. Novara! thy name will never be forgotten, for time can never erase thy mournful and disastrous remembrance.

In a saloon of the Belliori's Palace, at Novara, with irregular paces, strode Carlo Alberto, the true, the brave, and virtuous. The tottering form, the countenance overcast with care and sorrow, the nervous twitching of the frame, told how terribly he felt the reverses of his army and of his country. Who could believe that in the space of a few hours such a change could have come over him, as if years had passed over his head? The bold and erect frame was there no longer; the bright, intelligent glance of the eye was gone; the cheerful tone had fled-all departed, never to return. And in their stead was beheld the old and infirm step of age, bowed down by grief and despair. Frightful it is to see the effect of mind over body-the giant spirit triumphing over matter, and asserting his imperial sway. The most acute pain, the most intense agony, can never accomplish in years what despair effects in hours. Nor did I ever see it realised to such a terrible extent, as I did in the person of the late ill-fated King of Sardinia.

Kind reader, pardon me, if at this period, when my tale draws to a conclusion, I pause for a few moments to offer my tribute of respect to him who is beyond human censure, and to defend the memory of the dead from the calumnies that have been, with no sparing hand, heaped on the head of one, whose memory has, and ever will be, retained by his countrymen in grateful remembrance. That Carlo Alberto had his failings, as I have before observed in this tale, is not to be denied; but where is the man who is perfect? That over him stole at times a gloom of character, from which it was difficult to draw him; that in these moments a bigotry of disposition marked

his course, cannot be denied; but then stand forth, in bold relief, many and many noble virtues, making us forget the imperfections, whilst admiring those qualities so worthy a king. The asylum he always afforded in his kingdom to exiles from every other part of Italy-the noble manliness with which he always resisted the efforts of Austria and the other adjoining despotic states to deliver them up to their tender mercies should alone be sufficient to endear his memory in the mind of every true Italian whose heart beats responsive to the call of liberty. But apart from this consideration-the attention he paid to commerce, to the encouragement of art and science, to the wants of agriculturists, his gift of a liberal constitution to his people, and the flourishing position Sardinia was in throughout his reign, so different to antecedents-tend to prove he was a monarch not merely in name, but also in mind. Nor would there be need for me, were the history of my country, with its religious, social, and political position, read and understood in the United Kingdom, to place here on record my humble assertion of well-known facts; for then they would in themselves at once repel, and with indignation, the efforts made by disappointed ambition to sully the character of the departed. And who are these parties who are continually tearing away the veil of decency which should cover the unfortunate and the gravewhere should rest for ever the private animosities of our nature-the good only to be remembered, the wrong forgotten-who are these men, I ask? The answer is, a small section of Red Republicans or modern Socialists, who I deny, and deny emphatically, are the

true exponents of the genius of modern Italian liberty. Mazzini and his small party, for small it is, may stand forth and assert such to be the case; but facts are not to be controverted and gainsayed by boastful assertions. The votes of the people of Milan, of Parma, of Piacenza, and of other towns-the votes of the Venetian Assembly at the period of the Revolution—all tend to prove the truth of what I advance, that Italy is not Republican in heart, but earnestly panting for a liberal monarchical government, headed by the House of Sardinia. Even the legions who fought so valiantly in Rome were not Republicans. The one of Manara, the best and bravest, openly wore the cross of Savoy on their sword-belts, and continually declared they were not Republicans.† Mazzini, aware of this fact, in asserting all the volunteers in Rome were special partisans of his dogmas, must knowingly have asserted a falsehood. Mariotti, in his able work, justly observes, Mazzini's "faith is in God and the people- he alone God's interpreter-the people his blind

instruments." And it was because the Revolution of Lombardy broke out, independent of any agency of hisevery act of the drama of it concocted unknown to him-Mazzini's pride took umbrage at what he considered an insult to his dignity, and forgetting prin ciple and country, he determined, from the instant he put foot on Lombard soil the soil freed from the hands of its oppressors by its own gallant sonsthe soil where he himself was prevented from showing his person for many a long year to mark his gratitude by doing all which lay within his power to stab Italy to the heart. His every act pursued during the existence of the

VOL. XLVI.-NO. CCLXXV.

provisional government, proved such to be the fact. Allowing his opinions differed from those of the Milanese people* and their government, yet if he was a true patriot in heart, and desired but the good of his country, as he has often asserted, he should, without hesitation, have sacrificed those opinions for a time, and endeavoured, instead of sowing discord and dissension, to advance by his utmost efforts the independence of his native land, by overthrowing the foreigner and oppressor, and binding in closer bonds the minds of Italy, until danger had entirely disappeared. Instead of doing this, he aided in the formation of a conspiracy against the provisional government of Milan; his speeches and his writings were full of discontent; preaching for ever "divide divide !" as if division, instead of insuring ruin, created success: he and his particular partisans deserted, in the very first hour of danger, when the Austrians were marching against Milan, and in short never fired a single shot to ensure the glories of victory, or to lessen the disasters of defeat. The opinions of General Pepe, an ardent Republican, those of Mariotti, Dandolo, Farini,† General Bara, and others, bear out fully my assertions; but even if further evidence was wanted, the words of Mazzini himself prove it is not by him or his theories the liberties of Italy will ever be secured, but by the same honest hearts who gained the first victories in Lombardy, at the sacrifice of their fortunes and blood, and who first proved to Europe and the world at large that the elements of a nat on are still existing on the plains of the Garden of Europe. Mazzini's endeavours to blacken the memory of Carlo Alberto but tend to expose the extraordinary inconsistency of his own character, for the ill-fated King, who to-day is everything miserable and des

picable, was, but a short time prior, held up by him as a model and pattern of virtue.

To the kind reader who has perused my story, and who has thus become acquainted with all the secret ramifications of the Revolution of 1848, I commit the task of doing justice to the memory of him who to-day is before a mightier and more glorious tribunal than the one of frail and weak man. The grave has received the wreck of ruined and blighted hopes-the hearts of Italy preserve their memory. Requiescat in pace !

To return to our narrative.

Many and many a long minute passed away as Carlo Alberto paced the saloon backwards and forwards, his mind a chaos, his thoughts impossible to be collected. Vividly, like a meteor illumining for an instant the horizon, flashed to his mind the memory of past years. The dream conceived in youth, nourished by the soft touching strains of Petrarch, wrought into reality by the fiery genius of a friend of the poet, Rienzi, who twice almost realised, in the middle ages, the inspirations of his imaginative mind-that dream which he too had, in a similar manner, twice dared to realise-was crushed, broken by a climax of disasters he could never have foreseen-a dream which he now was forced to abandon for ever. For ever!-sad and fatal word. The dear wish, the fond dream was fled, and not even Hope, the magic star of human existence the sweet consoler of man's

disappointments-remained to cheer him up, and bid him again summon every energy for the struggle, where lay prostrate all the bright prospects of his country's happiness. Oh! could he but call again to life the hundreds who were now beyond his reach, lying calmly in the cold earth-those who, by their bravery, and at the sacrifice of their lives, had won the glorious